The next week after they were reunited was tough and largely silent. John did not object to having Sherlock in the flat but rarely a time would come when they exchanged words. Since that day John can become somewhat of a recluse. Mrs Hudson was on a month-long cruise with a few of her friends. After all, she deserved a break. Every morning, John would get up and make one cup of tea and 2 pieces of toast for himself. Sherlock was left to his own devices. Figuring he wasn't exactly in John's good books, Sherlock stayed out of the way for most of the day. Occasionally Sherlock would make an attempt at conversation but his hopes of having in in depth discussion with his once best friend were soon shot down, as John would sigh deeply whenever Sherlock made a sound. One day, something happened that made Sherlock doubt that he was truly welcome. After making himself a cup of coffee, Sherlock began to make his way to his armchair where he would plan out what he would do that day. His plans rarely differed from one day to the next. Sherlock felt that going outside would be foolish after faking his own death and so spent every waking moment confined to 221b. En route back to his armchair, Sherlock knocked into John, who was on his way to the kitchen. John shopped dead in his tracks and seemed to stop breathing. After 5 seconds, he exhaled loudly, muttering the words "oh god". The rest of the day was silent and drab.
The week before Mrs Hudson was due back, something wasn't right. Sherlock was awake and dressed up 7am, as per usual, but John was not. Usually John would go out for milk and the daily paper, but not today. Sherlock was concerned. John's shoes and coat were still stationed in their normal position and his bedroom door was shut tight. Sherlock edged his way over to his flat-mate's bedroom door and reached slowly for the handle. Cringing as the door creaked open, Sherlock peered around the door to find a mound of covers in the middle of John's bed and pillows strewn around the floor. It took him a moment to realise that concealed within the duvet mountain was John, pale and feverish. An empty plastic bin was stationed next to his bed.
"... John?" Sherlock hesitated before taking a few tentative steps forward. John's eyes opened, looked at Sherlock, then traveled casually to the wall directly in front of him. Sherlock was by John's bed now, not really knowing where to put himself or what to do. John's eyes shot open as he flung himself forward to the edge of the bed. Ever-nimble, Sherlock swooped to pick up the bucket and brough it up to meet John's now-vomiting mouth. Sherlock stood awkwardly witht he bucket in one hand and wondering what to do next. He promptly brought his free hand to position on John's back, as if to just let him know he was there.
"Don't touch me." John snarled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"But, John.." Sherlock started, sounding almost vulnerable.
John glared at Sherlock and got wearily to his feet. Sherlock just stood and watched as John padded out of the room. Sherlock was lost for words, dumbstruck almost.
A few days later, John was expecting a visitor. He had fully recovered from his stomach virus and was looking forward to catching up with an old friend. John had asked Molly to come round for tea and a chat. John was busying about, trying to tidy the place up and he had gotten to Sherlock's armchair. John stooped to lift Sherlock's violin.
"Don't touch the violin." Sherlock warned him, watching from the kitchen. John didn't reply and picked up the violin. Sherlock paced quickly over to John and near enough snatched the violin from his hands.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John snapped.
"Taking my violin from you." Sherlock retaliated.
"This is stupid-.. I mean.. you're not even real!" John announced.
Sherlock's mind raced as the words left John's mouth. Not real? What could he mean by that? Oh..
"John, I need you to listen. It's me, Sherlock. I am real!" Sherlock was almost pleading.
"That's wrong. You-.." John corrected himself, "Sherlock.. is dead."
Sherlock was lost for words. For once in his life, he really did have nothing to say. He stood in front of John, one hand clutching the neck of his violin, his mouth moving oh so slightly, trying to make words out of think air. The pair stood facing each other. John was still snarling, but Sherlock had let out a sigh and was completely at a loss.
Before another word could be exchanged, the doorbell rang. John prowled past Sherlock and down stairs to let Molly in. They exchanged pleasentaries at the door and he took her coat. The both made their way back up to there the argument had taken place moments before.
"Nothing's changed in here then. Oh, hello Sherlock!" Molly said brightly.
There was a dull thud as John had let go for Molly's coat in utter disbelief. His face quickly drained of any colour.
"You okay, John?" Molly let out a nervous laugh, not sure what to do.
"Y-you can-" John swallowed and tried to compose himself, "You can see.. him too?"